


in an instant, a spark

by Anonymous



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 4+1 fic, Fluff, M/M, Pining, a better author would have made it 5+1 but I’m not them, so much fluff I cannot even believe it came from my own hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 14:37:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19211455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Brad is standing over some kind of metal contraption, holding a towel in one hand, which he uses to flip a switch on the machine releasing a jet of steam.“Is that a,” and Patrice can’t find the word, doesn’t cook often enough or have the kind of stocked kitchen that would make it come easily to him, “a crockpot?”Brad looks sheepish, “Sort of? It’s called an InstantPot. It’s like a crockpot had a baby with a pressure cooker.”.Or, the one where Brad becomes a little obsessed with InstantPots.





	in an instant, a spark

**Author's Note:**

> Holy hell this one has been a long time coming. Tumblr users torald and blindbatalex deserve literally all the credit for cheering this fic on well over a month ago. I finished it up this morning and not the way I originally was going to? So if it seems a bit awk at the end it’s due to that and also the month long gap in between when it was started and when the very last section was written.

Brad’s wide eyed, disheveled look when he opens the door only serves to expand the knot in Patrice’s stomach. Brad only messes with his hair like that when he’s anxious about something, and Patrice doesn’t know what he did to cause it. Well, kind of. He had invited himself over, but that didn’t used to be the sort of thing that upset Brad so traumatically.

 

“I’m, uh- you’re early,” Brad says.

 

Patrice frowns, checking his watch, “It’s 7:29 and you said to be here at 7:30.”

 

“Yeah, exactly, early,” Brad says, and before Patrice can respond there’s a dinging sound in the kitchen that Brad rushes off to attend to.

 

Patrice takes a second to glance around the foyer, trying to see if anything had changed in the almost month since he’d been here last. Patrice knows that isn’t some massive extended period, but it was a long time for them. They normally hung out multiple times a week, and almost always at Brad’s place. Brad had put a lot more effort into his home than Patrice had, and it was obvious in the photos adorning the walls, the alive plants, the throw rug that matched the accent pillows on the couch in the living room.

 

It looked the same, felt familiar in a way that eased some of the tension in his shoulders even though he still didn’t know exactly what he’d done wrong to have lost his permanent invitation to Brad’s house. Steeling his nerves, he walks into the kitchen, determined to convince Brad that whatever reason he had for banning Patrice from his home shouldn’t matter.

 

Brad is standing over some kind of metal contraption, holding a towel in one hand, which he uses to flip a switch on the machine releasing a jet of steam.

 

“Is that a,” and Patrice can’t find the word, doesn’t cook often enough or have the kind of stocked kitchen that would make it come easily to him, “a crockpot?”

 

Brad looks sheepish, “Sort of? It’s called an InstantPot. It’s like a crockpot had a baby with a pressure cooker.”

 

Patrice nods like he knows what that means and watches as Brad gingerly unscrews and lifts the lid off the InstantPot. He has some ingredients that he adds in, and Patrice recognizes grated cheese, but not the spices or whatever is in the measuring cup. Brad’s tongue darts out between his teeth as he concentrates on stirring, and it’s what Patrice missed more than anything else, really.

 

When this used to be a regular thing they did, Brad would cook for them, sometimes. Lots of times Patrice would stop by some restaurant on his way over and pick up takeout for them to eat. But every once in a while, Brad would call and say he’d take care of dinner. It was never anything fancy, but Brad always put so much effort into it. No one else had cooked for Patrice except his mother. God knows Patrice didn’t cook for himself at home, other than an egg or a sandwich when necessary. It was just another one of those domestic things that Brad seemed to be endlessly better at than him.

 

“It’s mac and cheese,” Brad interrupts Patrice’s thoughts, “It’s not my usual recipe. I’ve been trying to figure out how to cook it with this thing. If it’s not good, we can order something. I can run out and pick it up even, we don’t even have to try this if you don’t want.”

 

“It’s pasta and cheese, March, how could it be bad?”

 

Brad nods once, but still seems nervous about it. He serves them each a bowl, puts black pepper on them, and hands one to Patrice. Patrice grabs out forks from the drawer Brad has his utensils in and grabs a bite, still standing.

 

Eyes closed, savoring it, he manages a, “Holy fuck, Brad.”

 

And when he opens his eyes, Brad’s cheeks have a red tint to them and he’s looking at Bergy with a strong glint in his eye.

 

“I mean, I’ve always liked your mac and cheese, but this is really fantastic.”

 

“Thanks. The first time I tried to make it like this, I didn’t release the steam when I was supposed to and the noodles turned into pure mush. The next time, I didn’t add enough liquid to the pasta and they burnt up all crispy.”

 

Patrice just leans against the counter, still wolfing down mac and cheese, “You’ve been working on this for a while then?”

 

“Yeah, um you know when you were in that magazine?”

 

Patrice grimaces, remembers being talked into doing the spread for Boston’s Most Eligible Bachelors by his sisters, “Yeah?”

 

“Well I picked up the issue, ya know? And there was a big advertisement for this. On nights when we don’t have games, I’ve been trying to figure out how to use it. I finally kind of get it. I didn’t want to subject you to it until I’d figured it out.”

 

And this maybe, is Patrice’s chance to get back to their regular dinners together, “I don’t mind you experimenting on me. If it goes wrong, we can always get takeout.”

 

Brad’s face lights up, “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah, now c’mon let’s see what’s on HGTV,” Patrice says, grabbing himself another scoop of mac and cheese before walking to the living room to settle in on the couch.

 

When he feels Brad’s weight on the cushion next to him, the knot in his stomach finally releases.

 

.

 

After a failed attempt at stuffed shells that ended with a scorched mess in the InstantPot and Patrice eating lo mein while sitting on the counter and watching Brad scrub furiously at the metal pot, Patrice had been worried that Brad was too embarrassed to invite him over for food again. Brad had apologized a dozen times before Patrice finally caught him by the shoulders and made him look in his eyes when he said he didn’t mind. Brad had let out a soft breath, seeming less distraught, but was still clearly upset for the rest of the night.

 

However, Patrice is pleasantly surprised when he gets a text from Brad on their next day off inviting him over for dinner. He shows up with a six pack of Brad’s favorite beers, and once again, Brad answers the door looking overwhelmingly stressed. He ushers Patrice into the kitchen where there are not one, but two metal contraptions sitting on the counter.

 

At Patrice’s raised eyebrow, Brad supplies, “You can cook rice in them too, and I thought it would be easier than cooking the rice then cleaning it and then cooking the chicken.”

 

Patrice is pretty sure you can cook rice over the stove too, but he’s never actually done it, so he doesn’t say anything. One of the instant pots dings, and Brad does the same steam release towel trick from the last time. The other one dings at almost the exact same time, but Brad ignores it.

 

“Don’t you need to fix that one too?” Patrice asks, gesturing to the ignored pot.

 

“It’s not an instant release, it’ll take fifteen minutes probably to depressurize. Wanna watch a show?”

 

And Patrice really doesn’t have any clue what ‘instant release’ means, but when Brad gets up during a commercial break and comes back with a bowl full of the chicken, he figures it doesn’t matter much because it’s unnaturally delicious. Brad beams when he tells him so, smiles genuinely for the first time all night.

 

There’s something bothering Brad, clearly, but Patrice figures he’ll tell him in his own time. He still doesn’t know why Brad spent the better part of last month ignoring him, and he’s nervous to mess with the precarious balance they've struck up again. Besides, if he can make him smile for now, it can’t be too bad.

 

.

 

Patrice doesn’t know what kind of a vindictive God would give him a rib injury and then slam him with the flu at the same time, but he gets the message about his prayer habits loud and clear. Last night, he’d miserably watched his team win, happy for them, but also desperately envious and puking his guts out. He’s settling in for a long day of Law & Order and saltines when he gets a call from Brad.

 

“Hey, come let me in. Can’t ring the bell, hands are kinda full.”

 

Patrice gets up, blanket wrapped around himself, and pads barefooted across the floor to open the door.

 

“Brad, ‘m sick, you shouldn’t be here.”

 

“My immune system isn’t as much of a little bitch as yours there, Bergy,” Brad says and pushes past him holding two larger cloth bags. He sets them both on the counter, and Patrice can’t help but laugh when he sees him pull out an InstantPot from one of them. He is scolded both by the look Brad gives him and the cough that wracks through his body afterwards.

 

He wants to be near Brad, but he doesn’t have any chairs in his kitchen, and it only takes a few minutes before he’s noticeably slumped against a wall. Brad manhandles him into the living room and onto the couch. Patrice is asleep before Brad’s left the room.

 

He wakes up to Brad gently nudging him awake, “C’mon Patrice, get it while it’s hot,” and he presses a warm bowl into Patrice’s hands.

 

“Is this chicken and noodle?” Patrice asks, staring down at the bowl in awe.

 

“Yeah, now c’mon budge over, you’re hogging the couch.”

 

The soup is good. Well as good as food can be when you’re sick and your tastebuds aren’t exactly at they’re strongest. But it’s warm and it has a distinct homemade taste to it that Bergy has never thought chicken soup could have. It makes him feel a little less like he’s going to die before he recovers from this flu.

 

Next to him on the couch though, Brad is fucking vibrating. Bergy reaches out an absent hand to rest on his leg. It stills his movements for a second, but then he starts twitching his hand a bit the way he always used to before a big game his rookie season. It’s his tell that he’s nervous, Patrice’s flu addled brain slowly realizes. He tries to trudge through his thoughts to try to figure out what might be causing Brad’s anxiety but he’s sick and tired and nothing is coming to mind, so he gives up on trying to just figure it out.

 

He takes his hand off Brad’s thigh, noticing how it again starts to shake, “What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing, nothing, I’m good. You like the soup?” and maybe Patrice is just sick and slow but god Brad rushes through the words like a race car in the Daytona 500.

 

“Yeah it’s good, why? You poison it?”

 

Brad laughs at this, but it’s a kind of unnaturally loud laugh for how mediocre the joke was. Patrice wants to know what’s bugging him, he really does, but then Brad is pulling the blanket up around both of them, and he’s stopped jittering quite so much, and Patrice can lay his head on his chest, and-

 

By the time Patrice wakes up, Brad’s asleep too. The TV is off and he’s managed to remove his shoes at some point. He looks calm and relaxed and well, it might not be the most manly thing to do, but Patrice tucks himself back into Brad’s chest and goes back to sleep. Manliness shouldn’t even matter when you’re sick anyways.

 

.

 

It’s not that Patrice has never thought of Brad in a romantic way. In fact, before the month long hangout hiatus, he’d started to think that maybe Brad had felt that way too. But nothing on earth was worth more than their friendship and Patrice wasn’t willing to risk that. He’d wondered, briefly, if maybe Brad had caught onto his little crush and that’s why he’d pushed him away, but he knew Brad well enough to know he didn’t respond to awkward situations with avoidance.

 

Which is how he’d ended up here, anyways, walking up to Brad’s step again. If only Patrice understood why their conversation today had gotten so awkward in the first place.

 

He’d just been talking to Connor about something when he mentioned wanting some Indian food. Connor had lit up like a Christmas tree at just the thought of it, launching into a story.

 

“Ya know Brad makes the best butter chicken? I’d never even had it before, and when he invited me over for butter chicken I thought it was just going to be like chicken and butter, ya know? But it had like spices and stuff in there. He made it in that little pot he has.”

 

And Jake who’d been on his phone the whole time suddenly chimes in, “Sounds nice, man, but it can’t be as good as the stuffed peppers he made for me.”

 

“Got you both beat, he made me chicken alfredo,” Sean says and Patrice misses whatever is said next because his ears are ringing so loud.

 

He knows he doesn’t really have any claim to be the only one Brad cooks for, but he kind of used to be. And Brad knows that chicken alfredo is his favorite pregame meal, and he’s cooking it for fucking Kuraly? Brad hadn’t invited Patrice over for a month, and apparently in the meantime he’d invited half the goddamn team.

 

Jake picks up on his discomfort first, “Oh shit man, has Brad not cooked anything for you?”

 

“No, no, he has,” Patrice says, his mind adding on _after you forced him to, after you invited yourself over and kept bringing it up after, and not once since you woke up a few weeks ago to find yourself alone again on the couch with no sign that Brad was there except for chicken soup leftovers in the fridge_.

 

It’s then that Brad comes up and the guys start ribbing him about not cooking for Bergy, and Patrice knows he should pile on, tease like nothing’s wrong, but he’s hurt. He’s silent for a beat too long and the guys notice of course, that he’s sitting there upset like a fucking moron and it gets awkward. Jake, in particular, is really bad at handling awkward and keeps laughing uncomfortably despite looking mortified at himself. Again though, Brad doesn’t really do awkward.

 

“Oh, come over tonight Bergy, I’ll cook you up something, yeah?” Brad says.

 

Patrice had said yes, of course, because he doesn’t know if he’s physically capable of turning down spending time with Brad at this point when he misses him so bad, even if it’s only being offered because Brad got publicly shamed.

 

When Brad answers the doorbell, he is in noticeably less of a panic than the last two times Patrice had been over. He looks nicer than they usually do for this kind of thing too, wearing a pale green button up with his jeans. Patrice’s heart lurches uncomfortably before he regains control of himself.

 

“Hey, come in, it just got done cooking,” he says.

 

Patrice nods, nervous in a way he hasn’t been around Brad in years, and walks into the house. Brad scoops them up each a portion of pasta and sets it at the table. They normally eat in the den in front of the television, but Brad has the shades on the windows drawn by the table so that light is filtering in. It’s stunning and homey and Patrice’s heart is lurching again, is aching uncontrollably.

 

“It’s alfredo like you like, but there’s mushrooms in there too, and some extra spices.”

 

“And this is what you made for Kuraly?” Patrice asks and almost winces at the unintended venom in his tone.

 

Brad shifts uncomfortably, “Well, kind of. I was working on it still. I didn’t have any seasoning yet, and I think when I made it for him, I cut the mushrooms too small, and they just disintegrated into the sauce. It took a few more tries before I started to get them the right size.”

 

“You’ve been working on this one a lot? I thought you didn’t even like alfredo that much.”

 

Brad goes red, slightly, “Nah, I mean it’s okay, but it’s your favorite ya know?”

 

“Yeah, so obviously you’d make it for Kuraly,” and Patrice doesn’t know why he’s pushing the issue so much, but he can’t seem to help it.

 

Brad makes a frustrated noise, “It wasn’t ready yet for you. It wasn’t good, and that would kind have defeated the whole purpose.”

 

“What purpose?”

 

“Of showing you I could do this!”

 

“Do what? Make alfredo?”

 

“Cook! I can cook for you. I can be a fantastic chef just like you want. But I can’t do anything fucking right for you, can I?”

 

Patrice stops, takes a deep breath. They’re screaming at each other, yelling in a way they never have, and he doesn’t even understand why. He looks at Brad who is sitting, red in the face upset, looking nervous and angry all at once, and Patrice wants to scream- not at Brad, just as loud as he can until something starts to make sense. It’s been months since things have been normal between him and Brad and it aches, it burns in his brain, thrumming a chaotic melody that the most important person in his life is slipping away from him.

 

The silence is a weight on their shoulders pinning them to their chairs as they avoid eye contact.

 

When Patrice finally finds something to say, his voice comes out quiet and even he can hear the aching sadness, “What do you mean be a chef like I want? I’ve always liked your cooking.”

 

Brad rubs his hand across his face, “You did that interview, and they asked-” but he cuts off after that, shaking his head.

 

“What interview? The one with NESN last week? I don’t think we even talked about you Brad.”

 

“No, the one in the magazine,” Brad raises his fingers into air quotes, “Boston’s Most Eligible Bachelors.”

 

Patrice tries to dig through his brain about the interview, thinking about a time he’d mentioned Brad or food or anything. To be fair, he wouldn’t have been entirely surprised if something Brad related had slipped in to the interview. It’s difficult to answer a bunch of questions about your ideal partner without thinking about the person you’re irrevocably in love with. It’s been months, though, since it was printed, and longer before that that he’d done the interview, and he doesn’t remember.

 

Brad must see his confusion on his face because he’s getting up, breaking whatever spell had kept them at the table and goes down the hall to where Patrice knows his bedroom is. He comes back a minute later, carrying the magazine. The look on his face is sad, a deep sad, a sad Patrice hasn’t seen since 2013.

 

He hands the magazine to Patrice, “I know it’s stupid, I just- I just thought that maybe, well.”

 

Patrice thumbs through the magazine as quickly as he can, knowing his article is somewhere in the middle. When he finds it, he skims the question and answer section as quickly as he can, not knowing what he’s looking for until he finds it.

 

 

He remembers the reporter asking the question, “What’s something you’d like in a life long partner?”

 

And he’d spent the night before at Brad’s eating mac and cheese, so he’d said, “If they cook for me, sometimes.”

 

And the reporter had said, “So, a good cook then?”

 

“Sure, a good cook.”

 

Somehow that had been printed as “fantastic chef”.

 

Patrice looks back at Brad.

 

“I- you were trying to get better at cooking for me? Because you thought that’s what I wanted?”

 

“Yeah I know it was stupid, but just here look,” and Brad grabs the magazine from him, turns a few pages, “I was reading the article, and I saw that and all I could think about was how I wasn’t that. But then I was flicking through it and I saw this ad for the InstantPot. And it said that it could make anyone a terrific cook even if they didn’t have much time, and I thought maybe that I could I dunno, learn and practice and then impress you with my cooking skills and all of a sudden you would love me back.”

 

Patrice wants to explain himself to Brad, wants to talk about how this pasta is good, but he loved Brad just as much when he made boxed mac. He wants to tell him that he understands now why he invited all the guys over to test out food on them, but he still wishes he’d just invited Patrice over instead regardless of how the meal turned out. He wants to say so much, but it was Patrice’s words being misconstrued that got them into this mess in the first place, so he pulls Brad in by his nice collar and kisses him.

 

It occurs to Patrice later that they never finished their pasta, but he doesn’t really care enough to move the sleeping Brad out of his arms.

 

 

+1

 

 

Patrice is firmly not a morning person. Brad is the kind of guy who wakes up at a devastatingly early 8am even when he doesn’t have to, says he likes to get his day going or some other nonsense. Patrice likes to stay in bed past 11, coaxed out by Brad with promises of lunch and kisses.

 

Today though, Patrice is up early. He’d set his watch alarm for six, making sure to shut it off quickly so it wouldn’t wake up the sleeping Brad. He sneaks out of bed and wanders his way down to the kitchen. He still isn’t super comfortable with the metal contraption, but Brad had been showing him how to use it over the past few months. He knew when to set it to vent and the difference between instant and natural release, and he even knew how to use it to boil eggs.

 

He crawls back into bed after finishing up, knowing the food would naturally release and wouldn’t need touched until they were ready to eat it. So when Brad wakes him up getting out of bed right at 8, he moves to get up with him.

 

Brad shoots him a confused look, “Everything alright, babe?”

 

“What? A guy can’t get up early and enjoy breakfast with his boyfriend?”

 

Brad’s eyebrows rise higher, but he just says, “Mm, alright, think we have some cereal.”

 

Patrice nods, giving Brad his best early morning smile and walking down the stairs to the kitchen. The smell of french toast greets him happily.

 

Brad patters down the stairs after him, “Is that, did you order food?”

 

“No I uh, I made it. It’s a french toast casserole. In the instant pot,” Patrice says, suddenly nervous and feeling a distinct need to throw whatever is in the pot into the garbage before Brad can eat it.

 

Brad beams at him, “Trying to win my heart using food? What kind of a sucker would do that?”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it. If you did, leave a comment below! And follow me on tumblr @abellyofjellywrites for updates on what I’m working on, tons of drabbles that don’t get posted to AO3, and to send requests.


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